


Vignette of Filth

by emoviolent



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Butch/Femme, Established Relationship, F/F, Gender Dysphoria, Non-binary character, Psychological Trauma, Smoking, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26011408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emoviolent/pseuds/emoviolent
Summary: pete and patrick smoke by the pier.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Vignette of Filth

**Author's Note:**

> warning for mentions of misogyny, transphobia and homophobia. patrick is a transgender butch lesbian that uses he/him pronouns and pete is a transgender non-binary femme that uses they/she pronouns. this is told from pete’s point of view and will likely be continued later.
> 
> listen to this to get a feel for the atmosphere: https://youtu.be/qsiJ3CO3LTM

He really shouldn’t be smoking with a set of broken lungs like his, but that doesn’t stop him. He likes the burn, the sweet musky smell that leaves the air thick and the risk of having a fit that doesn’t stop until the oxygen is snatched from his swollen throat. Pete isn’t above judgement because they’re an enabler and reluctant but willing participant. If Patrick dies like this it should be ruled an assisted suicide if not manslaughter. They know what this is. 

“I’m not an addict.” Patrick holds the cigarette between his thumb and pointing finger, gripping it in place like the cold salty wind of the bay might blow it clean out his hand. Pete watches the red-orange-yellow butt breathe a thin line of smoke that wavers in the breeze as Patrick takes another puff. He exhales a cloud of grey as he talks. “I don’t really need this and could quit if I wanted. I don’t even like it.” He extends his hand to Pete, offering them the cigarette. 

Pete twirls the cigarette in their hand, ash falling between their scuffed boots, through the railing and into the icy waves below. They stare at the cigarette between his index and middle finger with a thumb tucked over the top, thinks about how Patrick held his comfort style and how they hold it in the style of a classy woman, an Audrey Hepburn or Sharon Tate type. They’re not a classy woman. They’re a woman with lean hairy legs and tattoos and piercings, no breasts to fill the tiny bra under their shirt, the start of stubble shading their jaw.

Weird girl. Shameful girl with semen splattering the lining of the panties she shoplifted from the junior’s section of a department store to fit their narrow hips. Gross girl with eyeliner and mascara streaming down their face and lip gloss on their teeth and chin, wondering if there’s more to love than gagging on spit and cum. Bad girl that was thrown out of the bar for fighting back when someone called them a tranny. Weak girl that cries for the family that abandoned them. 

More ash builds at the end of the cigarette. Pete flicks it away and passes it back to Patrick. Patrick takes a final drag and crushes it beneath his sneaker. As he struggles to light another, he grits out, “Why are you staring off like that? Am I upsetting you?”

“No. I’m just thinking.” Pete leans over the railing, folding their arms under their head and resting their chin atop their hands. “I want more than this.” 

Patrick scoffs and ashes the cigarette. “What more is there than ‘this’?” 

Femininity hurts. Pete has known this since they were a little girl trapped in the perception of a boy. Their big sisters would always remind them as they waxed their legs and plucked their eyebrows, telling them to be happy they were born with a dick between their legs, that it would save them from a world of pain. Pete tries not to be angry at the memory because they didn’t know and wouldn’t understand that their flesh was what made them suffer. Pete could wash away makeup and kick off heels and remove wigs but they could never remove the girl that they were and couldn’t erase memories of assault and anger directed at their body. There was that suspension between man and woman that they bridged — too ugly to be a girl, too pretty to be a boy. Just Pete, nothing else. 

They only feel like a real girl when they’re hurting. Beauty is found in strong hands on your hips, puking up the apple slices you ate for lunch to make sure you can fit those tiny little skirts, duct tape ripping the skin of your thighs and chemical burns. It’s a cliche and so disgusting to think that way but it’s all Pete knows and all Pete can be. Girls have to be weak and scared and fuckable and they can do that well enough. And Patrick is their testament.

Patrick isn’t a boy but he’s close enough. He’s not really a girl either. He also walks that thin line between the sexes but for his own safety he is a man. He’s always been good at trying on new skins and adopting new identities, better than Pete. Pete can’t figure out how he does it and doesn’t quite understand it but they don’t need to in order to respect it. He’s their girl and they’re his.

It’s a thought that makes them giddy, like they’re in on a secret no one else knows about. It’s like when she used to sneak out of her room at night to kiss pretty boys and handsome girls in high school but she’s finally learned all the ropes and knows exactly what she is and wants now. 

Love, family, warmth, something better than this. She has all of that when she’s with Patrick.

“You always talk about getting out but what do you really want? What is there to have and leave?” Patrick spits the words out through grit teeth, lips curled into a snarl. The cigarette burns and smoke curls from it.

“A home.” The word is foreign on Pete’s tongue. What would home be? Somewhere warm where the ceiling doesn’t have mildew from leaks and the walls are thick and free of bullet holes and roaches. “Cottage by the ocean. Picket fences and a garden.”

“With what money?” Cynicism has always been Patrick’s second skin and no matter how often Pete penetrates it, it always heals with a thicker scar. 

“We‘ll find a way. We always do.”

Patrick leans closer, exhaling a cloud of smoke into Pete’s face. “And then what?” 

Pete struggles to stifle a cough as their eyes well with acidic tears. “I could be your wife.”

A beat of silence is punctuated by the salty waves splashing against the sea wall meters below them. Patrick drops the dying cigarette under his boot and crushes it before turning to Pete. “You really want to be with me.” It’s a statement framed like a question but Pete can hear the disbelief and worry in his voice. They’ve struggled enough already and will have more struggles to face regardless of where their relationship takes them. There is nothing else to do.

“I do.” 

“Even when things will go wrong, you’ll stay?”

Pete can’t help but cry, leaning against Patrick’s shoulder and covering her mouth to quiet heaving sobs. Patrick is there to hold her up. He's all they have. There’s nowhere else for either of them. Girls like them aren’t meant to live in a world like this. The scars and bruises on their bodies reflect that reality. 

“Even if I can’t give you everything?” Patrick’s shell has cracked and his soft innards are exposed. The seagulls circling overhead feel like an omen.

Pete trembles in Patrick’s hold. “I have everything I need with you.”

Patrick wipes the tears and snot from Pete’s face and strokes their over processed brittle hair, hushing them and quelling any worries. Being held like this by him always comforts Pete in a way they cannot properly articulate. It’s how they knew Patrick was different. No one else, especially a man, had ever been this gentle with her. No one waited for her or listened. It was now or nothing but Patrick had patience even if sometimes he behaved in a petulant manner because he had to wait on her.

Pete’s face is still wet when she finishes crying. She chalks it up to the spray of the ocean or the mist rising around them because Patrick doesn’t cry, but she swears she sees something in his eye as he pulls out another cigarette and lights it.

With another drag followed by a loud cough and a puff of smoke, Patrick says, “Tell me about the cottage by the ocean, Pete.”


End file.
